


Notes

by michii1213 (BuckytheDucky)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: AU, M/M, Not compliant to any IM/CA/Avengers film, Sarah Rogers lives, because Sarah is an angel who doesn't deserve to die, canonical death, post-serum!steve, pre-serum!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:18:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8096554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckytheDucky/pseuds/michii1213
Summary: The summer of Tony's seventeenth year of being alive sucked. Let's face it, it royally sucked. Being sent away to stay with a family member he didn't know all because of one mishap - well, it sucked. But he goes grudgingly, and things turn out a lot different than he anticipated. But it still sucked.Steve was always near death. That's just how his life was. Sickly, scrawny, and alone but for his mother and best friend, Steve Rogers had a pretty crappy childhood. But he loved it - for the most part. Then the summer he turned sixteen changed so much. Thirteen years later, Fate (if you believed in that kind of crap, which Tony definitely doesn't) throws a curveball into the lives of two men separated by unchangeable circumstances.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic a LONG time ago. Like, so long ago. It started because my Dinosaur was having a bad day, and I wanted a way to cheer them up. So this fic was spawned, and now, here it is, months later. 
> 
> I apologise, Dino, for the delay. >.> I'm terrible, I know.

_Don't be so obstinate, Anthony. We’re doing this for your own good… Stop complaining, Anthony. What, did you think actions had no  
consequences?... I've had enough of your petulance, young man! One more word, and it'll be for longer than the summer!_  
   
Tony slams the door shut behind him in an attempt to drown out the voices from downstairs, but of course his luck isn't that great: The floors and walls are thin enough that he can hear every negative remark being said about him. With a sigh, he drops the bag to the wood below his feet and drops onto the bed. The mattress is flimsy, dust puffing up in tiny clouds at the disturbance, and the frame squeals as it trembles beneath his weight. He'd be annoyed at the lack of comfort, but his brain is currently too full of outrage at his situation and barbed insults suffocating with “un-gentleman-like” words that would surely have some sort of punishment if he speaks them aloud in front of his mother.  
   
A gentle knock sounds at the door; Tony makes no move to answer it. His lack of response doesn't matter ( _Why would it?_ , he thinks bitterly), and his mother pokes her head into the small room. At least _she_ doesn't look happy about his summer-long exile.  
   
“We’re leaving, Anthony.”  
   
“Good.”  
   
“Please don't be like this.” She stops in front of him. “I don't like this any more than you do, but… It truly is the best thing right now.”  
   
“Right.”  
   
She sighs. “I love you, darling. Be good, okay? The summer will pass before you know it.”  
   
“Yup.”  
   
When he continues staring at the wall, lips pressed tightly together, she steps out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her. He listens as his parents say their goodbyes at the front door, as the far out by the curb starts up, as silence falls around him once the only actual connection to home disappears. He swallows back the emotions, lets out a shuddering breath, before slipping on the mask that's served him well so far. The house is quiet, even though there's at least one other inhabitant of the house. He casts a critical eye over the room he's been given, grimacing at the bland, unfamiliar sparseness of it. There is room enough for only a full-sized bed, rickety desk and folding chair, shabby bookshelf that looks as if it will collapse if he puts even a book as small as _Green Eggs and Ham_ on one of the shelves, and a dresser that actually appears sturdy. Even with just the few items, there's barely any space to move around. The carpet beneath his shoes is faded, worn thin, and he hazards a guess at it having been a deep blue when it was first installed. Wallpaper, actual _wallpaper_ , is peeling in places on the walls; yellowed with age, the once cheery and simplistic roses-and-vines pattern is almost impossible to make out.  
   
Tony huffs a sigh and stands. He knows he should be hungry, but the thought of food is making his stomach do acrobatics. He makes his way down the stairs, wincing when the boards creak with every other step he takes. His aunt (or maybe an older cousin?) glances up from the newspaper she's reading when he rounds the corner into the kitchen.  
   
“Hey, Anthony. I was going to start making dinner soon. Any specific requests?”  
   
“Not hungry. Thanks, though,” he hurriedly adds as she looks almost disappointed at his response.  
   
“It's fine. I understand. This is a big change you're going through.”  
   
“No kidding.”  
   
She frowns. “I'm not trying to be your enemy, Anthony. I promise I'm not.”  
   
“Got a washer and dryer? The bedsheets are gross.”  
   
“Yeah,” sighs his aunt heavily, rising and leading him to a room off the hall. “The machines are a little touchy and don't like to always work like they should, so if you'd rather, I can do laundry instead.”  
   
He shrugs and glances around. There's a shower tucked into one corner of the room, with a small sink and toilet directly opposite. A battered set of machines take up the other half of the room; a pole separates the space, attached at the ends to the walls, and a handful of hangers are pushed to one side. She shows him how to use the machines, waiting and watching him until he nods to show he understands. He follows her back to the kitchen where she sits at the table once more. When she doesn't say anything else, he pivots on his heel and returns to the room. Quickly stripping the blankets from the mattress, Tony carries the load to the laundry-slash-bathroom, shoves them into the washer, adds detergent, and starts the cycle.  
   
The _swish-swish-rrrr_ of the washing machine can be heard through the floorboards; Tony ignored it and pulls his phone from his bag. It is the one concession his parents agreed to when they approached the plan of shipping him off to live with some relative he has no bond with. He opens the phone, immediately bringing up the Messages tab and composing a new text.  
   
**You (15:53):** _This shit sucks. I don't wanna be here._  
   
**Rhodey (15:55):** _How long do u have to be there?_  
   
**You (15:55):** _All summer. I'm gonna die._  
   
**Rhodey (15:56):** _Stop being so dramatic._  
   
Tony drags a hand over his face and tosses the phone onto the mattress. This summer already sucks. He stands, takes one step, and sits at the desk that's in front of the only window. The house next door is barely fifteen feet away; he can see directly into the bedroom of whoever lives there. They are obviously a teenage boy, if the posters and mess are anything to go by. Tony doesn't know what _The Howling Commandos_ are, and he doesn't care enough to dwell on it. He stared into the room, mulling over how much he hates his life at the moment, until there's a loud bang. With a start, he realises it's come from the bedroom door across the way flying open and slamming into the wall. Tony slips away from his window quietly. He may not be familiar with this neighbourhood, but he's pretty sure nobody appreciates a stranger looking into their bedroom.  
   
“ _James_!” a distant voice shouts.  
   
“Sorry, won't happen again!”  
   
“Ma’s gonna make it to where you won't be able to come over any more, Buck.”  
   
“Aw, Stevie, your ma loves me. She'd never send me packin’.”  
   
“Don't sound so sure,” ‘Stevie’ replies before lapsing into a coughing fit.  
   
James/Buck groans. “Thought your ma and the crazy lady agreed she'd do laundry on the weekends.”  
   
Stevie’s response is drowned out by another round of hacking and wheezing, and Tony drops his head back against the wall. _Great_. The first day here, and he's somehow managed to nearly kill the neighbour kid, all because of laundry. He crawls across the floor and waits until Stevie is coughing again before slipping out into the hallway.  
   
   
   
Steve takes small sips from the glass of water Bucky holds out to him. The aching burn in his chest disappears as he draws in full breaths slowly. Once he's calmed, he sets the glass on the short dresser, laying back on his bed, while Bucky leans against the wall. They're quiet for a few moments; Steve watches the trees sway gently in the breeze outside.  
   
“Dale says he can get us some beer.”  
   
“Buck,” Steve starts, but his friend interrupts with “Yeah, yeah, it was just a suggestion.” When Bucky doesn't speak again, Steve turns his head to see Bucky with a putout expression on his face. “Remember the last time I tried to drink?”  
   
“That was _whisky_ , Steve. Beer ain't like that.”  
   
“How would you know?”  
   
“Shut up, punk.”  
   
“You go on and drink if you want,” sighs Steve, thin fingers scratching idly at his forearm. “I don't really feel like it, but I don't wanna stop you from having fun.”  
   
The sound of a car pulling up in front of the house next door stops Bucky from replying. The room is drowned in sudden silence. They shift quietly until they're next to the open window, with Bucky crouched on top of the dresser, his back to the wall; Steve presses close to the plaster and watches as a man strides up the sidewalk.  
   
“So?”  
   
Steve shrugs, whispering, “Can't see his face, but he's not lookin’ like its gonna be a bad night.”  
   
Bucky releases a heavy breath and jumps from his perch. Steve keeps watch, listening to the screeching of the screen door as it opens then slams shut. He hears nothing of what goes on inside, but the woman who lived there sneaks out back for a smoke. He shuts the window before his asthma can flare up again; he follows Bucky down the stairs and into the kitchen. Sarah Rogers is standing at the table, folding laundry and talking quietly on the phone. She's dressed in a pair of mint-green scrubs, her hair pulled up into a ponytail. She raises a finger in their direction, and both boys stop immediately. As soon as the phone is placed in the cradle, she fixes them both with a scrutinising stare.  
   
“And where do you two think you're going?”  
   
“Just out, Ma.”  
   
“Keep your noses clean, boys.”  
   
“Don't we always?” asks Bucky, all wide eyes and faux innocence.  
   
Sarah laughs but shoos the boys out of the house. Steve sends a final glands toward the house next door before following his best friend down the sidewalk. The Hecklen kids run up and down the street, screeching and laughing as they spray each other with large water guns. The sun overhead is hot; Steve’s shirt clings to his back by the time they reach the corner. Dale Jones is leaning against the small grocery store, puffing away on a cigarette. Steve is kind of shocked to see the older one alone; usually, there are at least three others consistently hanging around. Bucky immediately straightens but doesn't leave Steve's side. Evidently, Bucky doesn't trust the tentative respect between Dale and himself. It fills Steve with a warm rush, knowing that Bucky still hasn't fully forgiven the Jones boy for kicking Steve's ass two years ago.  
   
The trio sets off toward Dale’s house. The older two swap stories and pass a cigarette between them. Steve hangs back, shoes kicking tiny pebbles down the walk. Though he doesn't want to spend any time with Dale, he knows it's better than sitting in his bedroom alone having asthma attacks because the neighbour forgot about the deal she'd made with his mom. Besides, he knows Bucky will make sure nothing happens to him. He sighs, follows his best friend into the rundown house.  
   
   
   
By the time the neighbour boy comes home, Tony’s remade his bed with the freshly-washed sheets, put his clothes away in the dresser and closet, and complained to Rhodey via text messages over the course of an hour. Tony watches through the window as Stevie stumbles his way up the front walk. _Is he drunk?_ , Tony wonders, even as the blond boy struggles to unlock his front door. Once he can no longer see Stevie, Tony turns away from the window and pulls the curtains closed.  
   
The next two days are long, dull, and excruciatingly boring. His aunt has gone to work both days; his uncle has not. Though Carl hasn't said said much in the way of conversation, there’s something about him that just feels off to Tony. Anna’s not too bad. After the first day, she's pretty much left Tony to his own, only bothering him to call him down for dinner or to inform him of when she's going to work. He appreciates the fact that she is giving him space, but he also hates it. He's gotten the same treatment for as long as he can remember: left alone until he fucks up, then left alone once his father has taken care of the issue and is sure Tony's learned his lesson. Thank heavens for Jarvis, who's always gone beyond being just the butler to be as close to a friend as Tony's ever had.  
   
Then came Rhodey, and Tony realised how…unsocialised he really is. Sure, he can charm the wallets out of anyone at the gatherings and dinner parties his parents have hosted since before he was born, but talking to people his own age has turned out to be more difficult than he imagined. Thankfully, James Rhodes has a specially-built reserve of patience purely for Tony. But now, he's pretty sure Rhodey isn't enough. Mainly because their friendship is nothing like what he saw of Stevie and Buck’s.  
   
Tony sighs, pulling off the plain white shirt he's been wearing for less than six hours; his room is hotter than he's used to ( _Why the Hell does this place not have air conditioning?_ ), and the oscillating fan has done nothing to relieve him of the sweltering heat. He swipes the fabric over his face, hoping to remove at least a portion of the sweat that's accumulated. Once done, he tosses it into the laundry basket at the bottom of his closet.  
   
“Well, well, wouldja look at _that_. Look, Stevie!”  
   
Tony whirls on the spot to see Buck leaning halfway out of Stevie’s window; his fingers quickly pull the cigarette from his mouth so he can whistle, a high sharp note followed by a swooping tone. Stevie ducks away from sight, but not before Tony witnesses the furious shade of red on his cheeks. That spurs him into action. He swiftly pulls on a ratty T-shirt from his dresser, stalks to the window, and stares directly into Buck’s face.  
   
“Don't you know it's illegal to be a peeping Tom? Didn't your parents teach you anything besides how to be a goddamn voyeur, some kind of demented pervert who gets off on watching other people? You're fucking sick, and one of these days, you're going to get the shit beat out of you. I bet you make your mother proud. Fucking freak.”  
   
   
   
“You need your mouth washed out, boy,” retorts Bucky, his face hard and eyes cold. “Or maybe I should come over there and kick your ass.”  
   
Steve yanks futilely on Bucky’s arm. He knows his best friend is stronger than he is, but he hopes it will be enough to stop Bucky from fighting the neighbour. The bedroom door swings open behind them suddenly, and Steve freezes with his thin fingers wrapped tightly around Bucky’s bicep. Sarah Rogers is a peaceful, kind woman, but in this moment, she looks anything but.  
   
“James Barnes, you stop yelling at that boy this instant. Do either of you wanna tell me what in blue blazes is going on?”  
   
“It's nothing, Ma, just a disagreement.”  
   
His mother raised an eyebrow, then stoops a bit to look at the dark-haired boy through the window. “What happened?”  
   
“Ma –”  
   
“Steven, I gave you and James a chance to tell the truth. You didn't. Now hush.”  
   
“They were watching me get dressed.”  
   
Steve’s jaw drops at the neighbour’s words, and Bucky splutters indignantly, forcing out a choked “We weren't _watching_!” Sarah stands tall in the centre of the room, silent until the boys stop talking. When she speaks, her voice is quiet and tight.  
   
“You were watching him dress?”  
   
“Ma, we weren't, honest –”  
   
“Stevie’s tellin’ the truth, Sarah! The curtains were open, and I didn't realise it –”  
   
“Be that as it may, James. You don't stand there and watch somebody change their clothes! Apologise to him, then leave him alone!”  
   
As soon as Steve and Bucky mumble an apology, Sarah leaves the room with one last Look. Steve glances at the neighbour's in time for the boy to slam the window shut and yank the curtains closed with a smirk on his face. Steve sighs, flopping backwards onto his bed and listens as Bucky clambers out onto the roof. Steve's embarrassed that the past ten minutes happened. This wasn't exactly how he wanted to get acquainted with the boy.  
   
Bucky goes home a couple hours later, and Steve watches his mom hunting for her work badge. She pins it to the chest of her scrubs, grabs her car keys, and stops in front of Steve. She gives him a soft smile.  
   
“I think you owe that boy a better apology.”  
   
“Okay, Ma. I will.”  
   
“Good. I'll be back in the morning. I love you.”  
   
“Love you, too.”  
   
She steps out onto the porch, closing the door quietly; he waits until he hears the car start up before locking the door. The house is silent as he makes his way up the stairs. He almost wishes he asked Bucky to stay the night. The overhead light casts a pale orange glow around the room when he flips it on. He grabs his sketchbook, pencil case, and inhaler, and climbs through the window to the roof. He leans against the hard siding of the house, feeling the small breeze barely cooling his skin. With a sigh, he flips open his sketchbook to a blank page and starts to draw.  
   
When he looks up again, it's to find the sun has set, the moon is starting its journey across the sky, and the boy next door has opened his window. The thin curtains are still pulled together, the room beyond them dark. Over the sound of traffic, the wind, and canned laughter from a nearby television, he can hear the soft sound of a phone chiming every few heartbeats. He puts his pencils back in the case and lets his head tilt back until it rests against the house.  
   
“Uh. I dunno if you can hear me or whether I'm makin’ a fool of myself by talking to the air, but… I'm sorry about earlier. Really, I am. Bucky’s kinda an idiotic, which I guess makes me one, too, since he's my best friend and all.” Steve huffs out a self-deprecating chuckle. “But he's not – Okay, I won't lie. He usually is that crude, but he usually don't mean nothin’ by it. Most of the time, it's just him screwin’ around. Anyway. Sorry, it won't happen again.”  
   
   
   
Tony waits, but Steve doesn't say anything else. He can hear soft footsteps against the tile outside the window ten minutes later; he lifts the corner of a curtain in time to see Steve's thin form disappearing into his room. Tony flops back on his bed with a squeak. Steve's apology replays over and over in his head, and he can't figure out why. It's not like people haven't apologised to him before; it happens all the time. Even if they don't actually mean the words coming from their mouths, they still say “Sorry.” _Maybe that's the difference_ , he thinks as he watches shadows creep along the walls. Steve sounded genuinely sincere.  
   
By the time he clambers across the roof to crouch outside Steve's window, it's been over two hours, and Steve's snoring quietly, slight wheezing in every breath. Tony drops the folded piece of paper onto the chest of drawers beneath the window and hurries back to his own bed. His heart is racing beneath his ribs, and his palms are slightly sweaty. He takes a deep breath and rolls onto his side. As soon as he closes his eyes, his mind offers up the memory of Steve’s thin cheeks, flushed dark on his high cheekbones, and James’s set jaw and sharp blue eyes, right before Steve's mother interrupted them, effectively putting an end to the threatening. He slowly relaxes enough to fall into a somewhat peaceful sleep.  
   
Tony wakes to the smell of something burning downstairs and Carl shouting louder than the screaming of the smoke detector. He rolls over in bed, burying his head under his pillow when he realises he won't be able to sleep any more, he groans, climbs out of bed, and stumbles to the closet for clothes. Once dressed, he scribbles out a note to Anna and sneaks down the stairs. The neighbourhood is still quiet as he steps outside, which makes the whole situation that much worse, because he can still hear Carl as if he was in the kitchen and not on the front porch. Tony sighs and makes his way down the sidewalk.  
   
“Going somewhere specific?”  
   
He turns his head slightly to see an older man in a wheelchair two houses down. “Uh, is there a diner or something around here?”  
   
“Yup. Three blocks that way, then take a left.”  
   
“Thanks.”  
   
The diner is literally called The Diner. How _original_ , Tony grumbles to himself even as he pushed through the door. The waitress gestures for him to find a seat, so he slides into a booth near the front. The cracked vinyl seat creaks under him; the Formica table is greasy from years of use, chipped at the edges, stained and warped. He grabs the flimsy menu sheet from its holder and scans it quickly. When the waitress – Dot, if her nametag is correct – steps up beside him to take his order, he barely suppresses his grimace at the sound of her popping bubbles with her gum. He requests a short stack of pancakes and coffee – cheap but filling. Truthfully, he doesn't expect much out of flapjacks from a diner in fuckin’ Brooklyn, but he knows he has to deal with shitty food since Jarvis is back home, isn't here with him.  
   
To his immense surprise, the pancakes are fluffy and not as bad as he anticipated. Tony eats slowly, pays the four dollars that the meal costs, and starts back down the sidewalk. Kids have come out, playing in the streets, laughing as they play pretend. Tony feels a pang of – _something_ as he watches “pirates” and “dinosaurs” and “cops ‘n’ robbers” from the corner of his eye. Being a kid means fun, no responsibilities, someone to tuck you in at night and chase away bad dreams and monsters from under the bed. Being a Stark means being a kid wasn't possible. From the time he was old enough to be a nuisance, his father made sure his being home was a rare thing, and his mother… Well, Maria Stark was never meant to be a mother. She’s tried, oh how she's tried, but it's never been easy for her. She tried to be soft and sweet with Tony, but a doting maternal figure she is not. Though she has more patience for their son than Howard ever has, she'll never be the type of mother a child deserves. Jarvis is more than the Starks’ butler, has been since Tony’s birth. He's the one who's always shown any sense of pride in Tony’s accomplishments, understand for Tony’s cries for attention, compassion when the child fails. The butler always seems to know just what Tony needs and delivers it in that quiet, mellow manner that causes the youngest Stark to sometimes wish that Jarvis was his father.  
   
Tony shakes away the thoughts as he reaches the house. Carl’s car is gone from out front; he breathes a soft sigh of relief, but that feeling of ease fades when he sees Anna on the front porch, her bottom lip split and starting to scab over; her arms are wrapped tightly around her midsection, and her pale eyes stare blankly down the street. Tony comes to a stop in front of her, his hand hovering in the air near her shoulder. He doesn't touch his aunt, just hesitated before letting his hand drop and going inside.  
   
   
   
When Steve woke up that morning, he wasn't surprised to hear fighting coming from next door. It's been the wake-up call for as long as he can remember, but he still hates hearing it. He climbed out of bed, pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt he thinks is Bucky’s, and joined his mom for breakfast. They ate amidst the shouting and crashing dishes before Sarah stood at the living room window, staring out at the street. Steve knows she was wishing she could help.  
   
The screaming stopped an hour later, so his mother went to bed. Steve hated the quiet that meant he was alone, so he'd gone to his own room. Now here he sits, the radio alarm clock in his dresser playing old rock songs softly as he sketches absentmindedly. He sighs heavily and stares out the window; the beat-up white car is no longer sitting out by the curb in front of the house next door, but the woman is standing on the porch. Her posture screams defeat. Steve puts his pencil back to the paper, works to get every line, every curve, perfectly right.  
   
When he looks up, the window is gone. He glances back down at his sketchbook, holds it out away from him, and nods once in satisfaction. He sets the book on his dresser and turns off the radio. Kids are laughing and playing in the streets outside. A hot breeze flutters through the open window, barely disrupting the thick humidity. Steve wipes his hands on his shorts before making his way across the room. He sits on the front porch and watched the children act out fantastic plots, complete with what one eight-year-old calls a “space cowboy dragon-herder!” He can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy at how easily they can play without worrying about bad backs or the sudden, crippling inability to breath through lungs abruptly made of fire. Sure, he's always had Bucky ever since they were four, but when you're visibly smaller and sick more often than your peers, it tends to make for a lonely childhood, even if you've got s stubborn jerk as your best friend.  
   
The humidity and oppressive heat finally get to Steve; by the time the sun is high in the sky, his shirt is sticking to his skin, his hair is curling against his neck and forehead, and his lungs feel like they are being squeezed. He runs the tap in the kitchen until the water runs almost painfully cold, then fills a glass, carries it up to his room, and sits it on the dresser. He barely turns away before something catches his eye from its position behind the alarm clock. He reaches for it, hesitating for a moment but picks it up. It is a small, folded piece of notebook paper, slightly wilted from the mugginess of the morning. The handwriting is an unfamiliar, pointed scrawl that's barely legible.  
   
_If he's such a crude idiot, how did you two become friends? Seems like a decent kid like you would've run away from trouble like that._  
   
Steve laughs quietly and stares down at the sharp curves of the letter. Without really knowing why, he slips the note into the lockbox in his top dresser drawer. He doesn't understand it, but something tells him he should keep this.  
   
He's already planning out the best way to tell the boy next door the story of how Steve and James became “Steve ‘n’ Bucky”, by the time he turns away from the window.  
   
   
   
The day passes slowly, partly because of the humidity and steadily-increasing temperature, but mostly because Tony spends a majority of his time with his aunt. She hasn't spoken since Tony came back eight hours ago, but she seems to appreciate the quiet company that Tony provides – well, she hasn't told him to scram, so he's considering it as an accomplishment. Eventually, once Jeopardy! ends, she rides to her feet and heads towards the stairs. Tony watches as she stops in the doorway.  
   
“Thank you for-for today.”  
   
“Any time.”  
   
The words come out flippant, nonchalant, so he's surprised to find he means them. Anna gives him a tremulous smile, disappearing up the stairs. He waits until he hears her bedroom door shut before pulling his cell phone from his pocket. There are seven text messages and two missed calls.  
   
**Rhodey (13:49):** _How's the “vacation”?_  
**Rhodey (14:21):** _Come on tones I doubt ur aunt has anything that could keep ur attention for this long_  
**Rhodey (15:11):** _My parents want u to be at the cookout this yr_  
**Rhodey (15:15):** _Kno when ur coming back?_  
**Rhodey (16:58):** _Just tried calling. Y aren't u answering?_  
**Rhodey (17:04):** _Ur really starting to make me worry…_  
**Rhodey (17:43):** _If u don't get back to me by 1800 I'm calling ur parents_  
   
**You (18:03):** _Please, please, please tell me you didn't call Howard._  
**You (18:04):** _Seriously, I'm okay. Spent the day with Anna._  
   
**Rhodey (18:06):** _I didn't call Howard. How was it?_  
   
**You (18:07):** _What? Hanging out with Anna? Surprisingly not bad. She's…she's going through a hard time._  
   
**Rhodey (18:10):** _????_  
   
**You (18:11):** _There was – Fuck this, I'm calling you._  
   
_“Hello?”_  
   
“Sugarplum, to hear your voice is like a cool drink after three months in a desert cave.”  
   
_“So what's this ‘hard time’?”_  
   
“Fine, see if I ever call you ‘sugarplum’ ever again, if you're not even going to acknowledge my affection for you.” Tony sighs and lets his head fall back against the couch. “I think my uncle just left, like, for good. They were fighting when I woke up this morning, so I left, because I was not about to listen to that shit. I mean, I get a break from Howard yelling at me, and now I have to listen to _Carl_ yelling? No, thanks. Anyway. When I came back, he was gone, and Anna looked so… I don't wanna say she looked depressed, but she definitely looked like she'd gone a few rounds with a low-level boxer.”  
   
_“Shit, is she okay?”_  
   
Tony shrugs, momentarily forgetting his friend can't see him. “I dunno. We haven't really talked, just watched TV all day.”  
   
_“Damn. Well, as much as I love to hear about you caring about someone else enough to sit in one spot for more than five minutes, it sucks that it happened because your uncle’s an abusive bastard.”_  
   
“Yeah.” He picks idly at a loose thread on the couch. “I guess I'll be coming to the cookout, even if I have to escape like this is some kind of unconventional prison. Howard never told me exactly when this unnecessary exile was ending –”  
   
_“Unnecessary? Tones, if your dad hadn’t shipped you off for the summer, you'd have been arrested on top of being expelled.”_  
   
“I…did not know that,” admits Tony slowly. “Huh… Well, Pooh Bear, I'm going to bed or something. That's what normal people do, right, have a decent bedtime?”  
   
_“Not at seven o'clock, unless you're a toddler or fifty-year-old man.”_  
   
“Have you _met_ Howard Stark? That man doesn't fall asleep until three a.m., and that's only because the scotch finally overwhelms his ridiculously high tolerance. Anyway. I'm out.”  
   
Tony hangs up without another word, turns off the television, and makes sure the front door is locked. Which, really, is kind of pointless considering A) none of the windows latch properly, B) a burglar knows how to pick locks (and if they don't, well, they're in the wrong line of work), and C) Carl probably has a key, so he could get in anyway. But locking the door makes Tony feel just a little bit settled, so whatever. He managed to avoid the creaky steps as he makes his way to the room he's been staying in. It's even hotter and stickier up here than it was in the living room. He groans lowly, pulling shut the curtains over the window before stripping down to his boxers. He settles in bed with the biography Maria gave him for his birthday, letting himself get lost in a narrative over Dr Ho Yinsen’s life and achievements.  
   
Tony startles awake at the sound of someone speaking outside the window. He somehow managed to catch the book before it hits the floor, then scurries to lean against the wall.  
   
“ – note this morning. I don't know if you're still awake, but your light is on, so I'm going to assume you are.” Steve sighs. “Bucky and I've been friends since I was four and he was five. Our moms met through a church volunteering programme at the shelter. They hit it off, since, I dunno, they figured the fact Ma’s a widow and Ms Barnes might as well be, with as much help as Buck’s dad’s ever been, were enough to have in common. And they're both downright scary when they want to be.  
   
“Always. Ma invited Winnie over on one of her rare days off from the hospital. Bucky hadn't wanted to come – I don't even remember why now – but his sister, Rebecca, was there. Ma asked me to keep an eye on the baby, she was maybe two at the time, so I took her outside while our moms talked. Rebecca was drawing with chalk on the sidewalk when these jerks decided to stomp all over the doodles and crush the chalk. She started screamin’ and cryin’, so I was tryin’ to calm her down while throwing rocks at the boys. Like, who does that to a toddler? They disappeared fast when Ma came outside. A week later, this kid comes up to me on the playground at school, kicks at my foot a bit, then says ‘Thanks for takin’ care of my sister.’ Then, oh god,” laughs Steve quietly, “then he kinda squints at me and says ‘You look sick, are you okay?’ I didn't know how tell him I always look that way. Since then, we've just kinda stuck together.”  
   
Silence falls, broken only by the sounds of traffic, a dog barking somewhere down the block, and shoes against the roof tiles when Steve shifts.  
   
“So, uh, what about you? Any friends? I mean, I'm sure you have friends, probably lots. I don't know why I asked that. You don't have to answer that. Just pretend I didn't… Um, I'm going to bed now. Night.”  
   
Tony listens as Steve climbs back into his bedroom, the soft creak of bedsprings depressing floats quietly through the night air. With a nearly-inaudible sigh, Tony sets his book on the desk, pulls out a piece of paper, and starts writing.  
   
   
   
   
The note is impossible to miss this time: It is literally the first thing Steve sees when he opens his eyes. A strange sense of elation fills him as he hurriedly sits up and pulls the paper off of his alarm clock.  
   
_You're right – I do have friends. Well…a friend at least. Rhodey. He's pretty much the exact opposite of me. But he wouldn't be Rhodey if he wasn't so damn logical and rational all the time.  
   
It sounds pathetic, only listing Rhodey as a friend, doesn't it? ~~I'd include Jarvis but I~~ ~~It’s hard for me to make friends~~ ~~I don't trust easily~~ Oh well. I don't really need more than Rhodey. He's like an enormous dog: loyal, reliable, needs a lot of attention so my time is pretty much always taken up by him (plus he needs long walks, or he starts pissing on the floor).  
   
So… Yeah. I have a friend._  
   
Steve chuckles to himself, though the sound is edged with slight bitterness. He can just barely make out the words the boy wrote, and, as curious as he is about who this Jarvis is, Steve won't mention him. He figures there's a reason Jarvis’s name is scribbled out.  
   
The sound of the front door creaking open downstairs, coupled with his best friend’s voice loudly announcing his arrival, causes Steve to jump in surprise and hastily lock away the note in the lockbox. By the time the box is locked and pushed to the back corner of the drawer, Bucky is opening the door to Steve's bedroom. He raises an eyebrow as he takes in what Steve knows is a guilty expression on his red face. Thankfully, Bucky doesn't mention it, merely crosses the room and flops backwards onto the bed.  
   
“Why are girls so ridiculous?”  
   
Steve rolls his eyes. “What happened now? Brianna not give you her number, just like she hasn't given you her number for the last six months?”  
   
“My, my, someone's sassy today.” Bucky pauses. “But you're correct.”  
   
“Colour me surprised. Why do you keep trying, Buck? She ain't gonna suddenly change her mind.”  
   
“Have you seen Brianna? Stevie, she's _perfect_.”  
   
Steve purses his lips to hold back the snide remark. His Ma raised him better than to say anything negative about people he barely knows – even people he knows quite well – and his thoughts about Brianna Tanner are anything but positive. Then again, the only person he cares enough for to think about (besides his Ma) is Bucky, and well, Bucky doesn't always warrant glowing mental praise.  
   
“I see he's learned to keep his curtains closed,” remarks Bucky as they get ready for bed that night.  
   
Steve winces at the sensation of his T-shirt scraping against the brand-new sunburn he's sporting before following Bucky’s gaze. “Guess so.”  
   
No light shines from the room next door, but Steve is pretty sure the kid isn't asleep yet. It's only going on ten o'clock, after all. He doesn't say anything else; his disappointment gets shoved deep into the back of his mind. It's not his friend’s fault that Steve can't talk to the neighbour tonight. Besides, it's gotta be uncomfortable – not to mention creepy – for Steve to sit in the roof and talk to the boy. Sure, the notes that Steve's received haven't exactly said “Go to Hell” or anything similar, but A) there have only been two, and B) they don't necessarily ask for the one-sided conversations to continue. Steve curls up on his side next to his best friend, the familiar weight of Bucky’s arm thrown over his hips, the closeness of their bodies a comfortable presence, and resolves to ask the boy about it the first chance he gets.  
   
By the time Bucky finally goes home, four days have passed, and it's only because Steve's somehow managed to come down with a nasty summer cold, and Sarah is a strict woman who takes no chances with the health and well-being of anyone. She leaves medicine, tissues, throat lozenges, and a thermometer on Steve's dresser, along with a glass of water. Then she apologises for not being able to stay home with her son while he's sick.  
   
“Ma, it's okay. I've been sick before. I'll be fine.”  
   
“Call me at work if you need anything.”  
   
Steve nods, promising to do just that, and curls up under his blankets. He falls asleep to the sound of the shower running.  
   
   
   
For four long days, Tony has had no one (except Rhodey, whenever possible) to talk to. He's kept his window shut as often as he could, only opening it late at night once Steve's light went out and whenever Steve and Bucky left the house. Having a repeat of the first night he ever spoke to the dark-haired boy is _not_ something Tony wants to do. So he's spent his time reading, watching game shows with Anna when she was home, and even cleaning and cooking when she wasn't. Carl still hasn't come back. Small miracles and all that bullshit.  
   
Tony is coming home from The Diner two hours after Anna’s left for work when he sees Bucky ambling down the sidewalk. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, and there's a tight expression on his face. Tony’s never been a coward, but he _has_ always known when to fight and when to cut his losses (purely strategic – absolutely _no_ correlation to his pride, nope, no way). So, he does the only thing he can do: He ducks into an alley between two rundown buildings and waits with his back to the wall for Bucky to pass. He glances over his shoulder every five seconds until he's finally inside his aunt’s house. With a relieved sigh, he locks the door behind him and hurries up the stairs. He stops immediately at the sight of Steve's dresser, covered in typical “illness crap”. He almost feels… _disappointed_ at the fact that Steve is sick; when he realises it's because this means yet another night of no story-telling, Tony groans, pushes a hand through his hair, and banishes those thoughts far from his mind.  
   
Nothing, however, explains why he's dialling the phone number he's been refusing to accept that he's memorised, been promising himself he'd never use during this exile.  
   
_“Stark residence.”_  
   
“Hey, Jarvis.”  
   
_“Master Anthony, what a surprise.”_  
   
Tony clears his throat against a sudden surge of emotion. “Yeah, I wasn’t expecting to, uh, call or anything. But, uh, well… I need help.”  
   
_“Is everything all right?”_  
   
“Yeah, yes, everything's fine, J. Promise.” Tony sighs, smiling at the concern in Jarvis’s voice. “I – God, this is gonna sound so stupid, but, um, I need to know…”  
   
_“Yes?”_  
   
“I need to know how to make that soup you make me when I'm sick.”  
   
Silence falls over the line for a moment, and Tony presses the heel of his palm to his forehead. Finally, Jarvis manages a quiet cough.  
   
_“Master Anthony, are you ill?”_  
   
“Nah, not me. The, the kid next door is, though, and he, well, he seems kinda nice, and I-I just wanna help him.”  
   
_“Of course. Have you a pen and paper?”_  
   
Tony writes down the ingredients and instructions for the soup. He can feel the questions that Jarvis is too proper to ask, so he makes a mental note to call more often. Jarvis makes him repeat the recipe back twice in order to ensure it’s correct, then Tony hesitates, not wanting to sever the connection.  
   
“Thanks, Jar. Really, you… You're… Thanks.”  
   
_“You are most welcome, Tony. I hope your friend enjoys the soup and that he feels better soon.”_  
   
Tony finally says his goodbye, hands up, and blinks away the burning tears. His chest is tight with longing, homesickness; he draws in a shaky breath before pushing himself into action. Anna’s left him twenty dollars so he can order a pizza for dinner, since she'll be working late. He pockets the cash and recipe, and makes his way to the small grocery store. Home again, he quickly gets to work, cooking and dicing chicken, bringing water and broth to a boil, and measuring rice. Th kitchen begins to smell wonderful, and his stomach growls its approval. Tony laughs to himself as he searches the cabinet for a large Tupperware container and lid. He ladles enough soup for three servings into the plastic bowl, carries it upstairs, and carefully climbs onto the desk. He's halfway out the window when he realises he forgot one thing. He runs down to the kitchen and grabs a spoon from the silverware drawer. His hand shakes slightly as he scribbles out a note.  
   
Steve is asleep, snoring lightly, when Tony pokes his head through the open window. The blond’s face is pale, splotched with patches of red high on his cheeks, and he shivers under the blanket. Tony bites his lip; he sets the soup and spoon down gently, moving slowly until he standing in the room, and gingerly pulls the comforter up over Steve's shoulders. He jumps back, startled, at Steve's sudden coughing. Before he can get caught, Tony scrambles over the dresser, through the window, back to his own room  
   
**You (12:10):** _I'm an idiot. I really am._  
   
**Rhodey (12:28):** _What happened??_  
   
**You (12:29):** _I told you about the neighbour kid, right?_  
   
**Rhodey (12:29):** _Sort of? Nothing more than his friends a sick. Y?_  
   
**You (12:32):** _Well, he's sick (neighbour kid, not his friend) and I called Jarvis to get the recipe for the “Sick Soup.”_  
**You (12:32):** _Then I made said “Sick Soup”. From scratch._  
**You (12:32):** _Then climbed through his bedroom window to give it to him._  
   
**Rhodey (12:37):** _Did he see u???_  
   
**You (12:37):** _No. He was asleep. I TUCKED HIM IN. AFTER MAKING HIM SOUP. SOUP I DIDN’T EVEN HAVE THE RECIPE OR INGREDIENTS FOR._  
**You (12:38):** _So, to reiterate my initial point: I. Am. An. Idiot. I don't even know why I did it._  
**You (12:39):** _And don't you even dare say something about this being proof that I have a heart. Starks don't have hearts._  
   
**Rhodey (12:40):** _Not saying a word._  
   
Tony puts the phone away in his pocket and heads downstairs to clean up. There's nothing to do in this house; Hell, there's nothing to do in this neighbourhood. Tony finds himself wishing he was back in the latest private school. He didn't have friends, but he never had a moment that wasn't full of something, _anything_ , to do. Tony steps onto the front porch, taking in the view of the empty street, before making his way down the short, uneven walkway.  
   
   
   
When Steve wakes, the sun has set; his room is dark except for the orange glow of streetlights outside. He's still shivering, achy, sweating from the fever though he feels no warmth. The alarm clock reads 10:19 in bright red numbers. He struggles to sit up but gives up halfway through, ending up only partially reclined against limp pillows. He reaches out blindly for the bag of cough drops. Once he manages to unwrap one and pop it into his mouth, he rests, rubbing a hand on his chest in an attempt to stifle the fire in his lungs. Steve grabs the medicine his Ma left on the dresser, stops when he sees the plastic bowl. His hand trembles slightly as he digs through his drawer for the flashlight. The white light blinds him momentarily; his vision clears enough for him to see the liquid inside the Tupperware container, along with the plastic spoon lying on top of the blue lid.  
   
An explosion of flavour bursts dimly on his tongue when he swallows the first spoonful. He can't taste much since he's sick, but what he can taste is amazing. Steve only managed to get down less than a quarter-cup of the soup before he's exhausted again. He seals the lid onto the bowl, sets it on the dresser, and unfolds the note that came with the soup.  
   
_I saw you were sick, so I made you soup. If it tastes terrible, I'm using the (accurate) excuse of “I've never made soup (or, well, anything edible, really) before.” If it's good, I'm giving all credit to the fact that I'm a genius. Ha….  
   
Anyway. The soup is something ~~Jarvis~~ someone important to me used to make whenever I got sick as a kid.  
   
Hope you feel better soon._  
   
Steve falls back asleep with a smile on his face.  
   
It's been three days since he first fell ill, and he's finally feeling better. The soup is long gone; Steve wishes he has more. He's written out his own note for the boy next door, but his health is still less than stellar, so he hadn't had a chance to deliver it. Sarah doesn't let him out of bed except to use the bathroom; she hadn't asked where the Tupperware bowl came from, which Steve is grateful about. He's a terrible liar, especially to his mother. Thankfully, she washed the bowl once it was empty, because neither of them like returning dishes dirty.  
   
Steve curls into a ball on his side and wonders about the boy next door. Has he been worrying about Steve? The soup and note say “yes,” but there's no way of telling for certain. The more he thinks about the boy, the more curious Steve gets. He doesn't even know the kid’s name or why he's here in Brooklyn. He pulls his notebook form under his pillow and flips it open to the last page he's written on.  
   
Once the sun sets, Steve forces his body to cooperate long enough for him to drop the note inside the window. He falls asleep as soon as he collapses back into his bed.  
   
   
   
Tony recoils when a hand plunges through his open window, fingers spreading outward. His heart races in his chest even as the hand disappears back out into the night. Over the blood rushing in his ears, he can hear shuffling footsteps against tar tiles. He waits with bated breath until all is quiet once more, before moving cautiously toward the desk. It's a short trip, since he's laying on his bed; his fingers search the surface, grasp up a piece of paper.  
   
The hallway outside his room is dark; no television sounds filter up the stairs from the living room below. Tony stops outside of Anna’s room, listening closely, but her bedroom is silent. He continues to the bathroom. He turns the light on, closes the door, and carefully unfolds the paper. The words inside are written in a quick artist’s scrawl.  
   
_Thank you for the soup. It was delicious. I definitely felt better after eating it. I couldn't even tell you've never cooked before. Really. It was great.  
   
I'm glad you have a friend. Rhodey sounds like a great guy. Now I'm imagining him as a chocolate lab or something.  
   
Thanks again for the soup. I really do appreciate it.  
   
-Steve_  
   
There's a small sketch of a dark-haired boy standing in an open field, a leash dangling from his hand, while a dog is in mid-turn a foot off the ground. With a start, Tony realises Steve’s drawn _Tony with a dog-version of Rhodey._ He can't stop the laughter bubbling out of him; he presses his knuckles against his mouth to muffle the sound. His eyes catch on the postscript at the bottom.  
   
_PS. Can I ask what your name is? What brings you to Brooklyn?_  
   
His smile fades at the questions, and he can't help but hate that Steve asked. He doesn't want to relay just how much he fucked up, doesn't want Steve to know just how easily his parents found it to ship him off for the summer without looking back. But, he reasons with himself, Steve isn't like that. Steve’s obviously a kind person – even if he _does_ have terrible taste in friends. After a quick trip back to his bedroom, he locks himself in the bathroom again with his notebook and a pencil he'd snapped in half during what can only be called a temper tantrum when an equation didn't solve properly. He sits on the closed toilet, thinking about what he wants to say. Finally, he puts the pencil to paper and starts writing.  
   
_Steve.  
   
I'm glad you liked the soup (and I'm glad my first attempt at cooking didn't kill you. That reminds me – I’m also glad you didn't die because I had to do laundry my first day here. That would have sucked…) anyway. If you need more soup, let me know. I'd be willing to make you more.  
   
Yeah, Rhodey’s pretty cool. I don't know why he puts up with my crazy ass since he can definitely land better friends than me and everyone knows he deserves better friends than me because I always manage to screw shit up up or forget important dates or say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I'm incredibly self-absorbed at the best of times, narcissistic at worse – according to all of my school reports, anyway. Which brings me to your question of why I'm here. In Brooklyn. I maybe kinda accidentally set a chemistry lab on fire. Okay, so maybe it was a  MINOR CONTAINED explosion, but… semantics. Anyway. I got expelled from the school and my parents decided ~~they didn't want to deal with me all summer~~ this was the best way for me to learn my lesson to  NOT do stupid shit like that. So here I am.  
   
You're welcome for the soup. I mean it, if you want more – ask.  
   
PS. That drawing of Rhodey as a dog? Perfect. I'm keeping it forever.  
   
PPS. Tony._  
   
He waits until the clock hits midnight then delivers the note.  
   
   
   
Before he knows it, Steve wakes up one morning to find the summer is almost gone. He and the kid – Tony – have continued the routine of late-night conversations and notes passed through open windows in the dark. Steve has drawn more pictures for Tony based off the notes left during the night. He's learned a lot about the dark-haired boy: He's being forced to go into the “family business” ( _It's ok. I've been around this stuff since I was born, so it won't be that bad. Besides, it’s not like I know how I do anything else – and lets face it, making Sick Soup ONE TIME without messing up doesn't mean a guarantee of success – or even what I'd do if I had the choice. It's ok, Steve. I was born for this. Literally._); he's a seventeen-year-old genius who built a circuit board at age four and a V8 motorbike engine when he was seven; and Jarvis, while officially the butler for the family, is quite possible more of a father to Tony than his actual father. Steve doesn't know much about Tony’s family, except his aunt ( _She's actually really cool once you get past the fact that she was a complete stranger to me before I came here. I'm glad – ecstatic, even – that Carl is no longer around. Fucking dick._ ), but he's pretty sure that Tony would be better off not going back home. The notes he's left have given Steve the impression that the genius is often an afterthought to his parents. This knowledge lights a protective fire within Steve.  
   
The calendar on the wall informs him that only a week remains before school starts again. Steve rolls onto his back and listens as birds chirp happily outside the window. His mind roams, maps out the next drawing for Tony, lines and curves forming a scene of the boardwalk of Coney Island. Unfortunately, the calm of the morning doesn't last long: The front door bangs open, Sarah yells “ _James_!” from the kitchen, and Steve struggles against – and loses to – his laughter. He gets out of bed, pulling a pair of cotton pyjama pants over his boxers, and makes his way down the stairs. His best friend is sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal in front of him.  
   
“Morning, Stevie!” announces Bucky, his mouth full of Frosted Flakes.  
   
Steve rolls his eyes. “Good morning, Ma. What's up, Buck?”  
   
“Got today off, so I figured I'd come hang out with my favourite asthmatic boxer.”  
   
“Charming,” Sarah states drily. “How you sleep, sweetheart?”  
   
“Good enough.”  
   
“Well, since James has the day free from work, why don't you two go shopping for school supplies and clothes?”  
   
“Lovely idea, Sarah. Really, the best one I've ever heard.”  
   
“James…”  
   
“Sorry.”  
   
Bucky’s got a point, though. Sarah _has_ come up with a great plan for the day. Today is the first time Bucky has come around in nearly three weeks; he found a job as a stocker at a chain grocery store and has been working almost every day. Seeing Bucky after so long feels…different to Steve. But he agrees to his mother’s suggestion then heads to his room to change.  
   
The difference is startling – and incredibly, painfully obvious – as they try on clothes. Bucky has put on weight since Steve last saw him, but it’s come in the form of defined muscles. He's lean but not skinny, and Steve can't stop watching the smooth ripples beneath Bucky’s skin, can't look away from the hard planes of his abs, when he strips off one shirt to replace it with another. Thankfully, by the time Steve catches himself staring, Bucky is too busy checking out his reflection in the mirror. Steve swallows against the dryness in his throat and starts trying on the pile of clothing he's brought into the fitting room. He avoids looking in the mirror.  
   
Sarah is lounging on the couch, book in hand, when Steve gets home. Bucky sets his bags by the front door before ambling to the worn armchair and sprawling on the seat. Steve shakes his head, carries his purchases to his room. The sun hasn't yet set, casting bright golden-orange light on the earth. The heat is still high, and there's no breeze to offset the oppressive cling of humidity. Steve drops his bags onto the bed and turns toward the window to warn Tony of Bucky’s presence. He freezes with his mouth still forming “Hey, Tony…”  
   
Beyond Tony’s window lies an empty room. The papers that were pinned to the wall, pages upon pages full of equations and plans, have been removed. The closet door hangs open, the desk is cleared off, and the bookshelf is devoid of the books Tony had brought and told Steve all about. The bed is made with precision, blankets tucked in neatly, so unlike Tony. No clutter can be seen anywhere on the floor; even the shoes that usually sit in a jumbled pile by the door are gone.  
   
Steve doesn't remember moving from his spot, but he must have to be standing on Anna’s front porch, knocking on the screen door. The woman appears in the hall, brows furrowed in confusion. Her expression clears when she sees him.  
   
“Steve, right? What can I do for ya?”  
   
“Is-Is…Is Tony here?”  
   
“Oh, I didn't know you know Anthony!” she says before frowning. “No, I'm sorry, honey. His parents picked him up earlier.”  
   
“He, he went home?”  
   
“Yeah, he did. Do you want me to call his house and give him a message? Maybe your number?”  
   
“No. no. Thanks. No.”  
   
“Are you all right? You look a little pale. Steve?”  
   
“Stevie? C’mon, punk, try to breathe. Look, here's your inhaler. Breathe in – slowly. Come _on_ , Steve, you know how to do this. There you go. One more time.”  
   
Steve gulps in air, allows Bucky to lead him back home. Sarah’s watching from the doorway as they climb the porch. Her arms immediately wrap around her son once he's close enough. He buries his face into her shoulder, and the tears start.  
   
“What happened, sweetheart? Baby, talk to me, tell me what's wrong.”  
   
“He left. He went home. He…he left, Ma.”  
   
He can feel their confusion, but he lets the comfort of his mother’s embrace wash over him, lets it wrap him tight against the hurt. Tony’s gone.  
   
   
   
His fingers fiddle with the cufflinks as Pepper adjust his tie. She slaps at his hands, reaches up to fix his hair, and gives the glass in his left hand a disapproving glare, but that's all right, that’s _normal_ , Tony can handle this. It's been a long eighteen months – Hell, it's been a long life, in Tony’s opinion – but the day is finally here: Stark Industries is unveiling their biggest project since Tony shut down the weapons manufacturing department almost three years ago. It's taken a lot of time, during which SI has undergone massive changes and dealt with upheaval in stocks, and Tony’s been called (at best) “eccentric, a dreamer, naïvely optimistic about grandiose and unachievable goals” and – well, he doesn't think about the “at worst”. Those comments sound too much like Howard, and Howard has _nothing_ to do with tonight. No, the gala this evening is about something Tony created himself with no input from his father, from the initial idea all the way to design (the fabrication itself was best left to the experts, and SI paid a _lot_ for the best of the experts).  
   
“Are you even listening, Tony?”  
   
He focuses instantly, the irritated edge in Pepper’s voice having registered amidst his wandering thoughts. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Don't make a fool of myself, tonight isn't about me or all my issues, it's about what SI can do to help, it's about the people who deserve the help, blah blah blah.”  
   
“Don't ‘blah blah blah’ about vets! They're important, more important than your ego, if you can wrap your mind around that –”  
   
“I got it, Pep,” he snaps, then takes a deep breath. “I understand. I do. If it weren't for the military, I'd be dead right now. So I know how crucial tonight is. I'll be the epitome of good behaviour. Scout’s honour.”  
   
“You were never a Scout, Tony.”  
   
He flashes her a grin and finishes his drink. She leads him down the long corridor toward the massive ballroom where the event is being held. Tony stood her outside the doors, hand soft on her arm.  
   
“You look amazing tonight. And thank you. I don't know what I'd do without you.”  
   
“You'd be lost. Like, ‘never find your way to the board meetings and your company would fail in a blaze of kerosene, scotch, and flames’ lost.”  
   
“You're probably right.”  
   
“Will that be all, Mr Stark?”  
   
“Yes, thank you, Ms Potts. See you on the rounds.”  
   
They separate once they're inside; Pepper goes to smooth any feathers still ruffled by this latest venture, Tony to charm everybody in hopes of acquiring more donors and supporters. He isn't shocked when more than one attendee compares him to Howard, but it will never get easier hearing about how embarrassed the late Stark would be to see the direction his company is going in. Tony laughs, makes a remark that's witty and polite on the surface but hides something less pleasant, then continues the trek amongst the people gathered. It's a mark of how often he does, _has_ done this his entire life, that he can easily grab a flute of champagne from a passing server while dodging the broad shoulders of a man in a dark suit who is either attempting to dance or is doing a rather impressive demonstration of a jellyfish mating ritual.  
   
The crowd quiets when Tony takes the stage half an hour later. He can see Pepper off to the right, smiling politely and looking divine in her black gown; she gives him a “Get to talking” gesture, so he takes a deep breath.  
   
“Thanks for coming tonight. You all are in for a great treat this evening: I'm gonna be on my best behaviour tonight.” This statement garners a wave of chuckles, and Tony flashes a self-deprecating grin. “Seriously, though, tonight is a huge step forward – not only for Stark Industries, but for the medical community catering to the men and women coming home from war. These brave brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, family members, are too often coming home missing limbs and carrying unseen burdens, bearing invisible scars. Unfortunately, before now, we weren't equipped to handle creating the best they deserved, but now? Now we do. Which is what tonight is all about.  
   
“Through an immense amount of research, a staggeringly large amount of time spent in a lab with experts from so many different medical fields, and the donations and support from people like you, we’ve managed to create something that surpasses even _our_ hopes and expectations. Ms Potts, along with the board, have chosen some help with the unveiling of this project. So, without further ado, I think Ms Potts should get up here and introduce the very first recipient of Stark Industries’ – and the world’s – very first neurally-integrated, fully-functioning, one-of-a-kind, as-close-to-real-as-possible prosthetic.”  
   
Tony steps away from the microphone as Pepper makes her way through the crowd amid applause. He doesn't listen as she speaks, as donors laugh, as people shift so another person can climb the stairs to the stage. But even Tony in his most distracted state of mind could never miss the man’s hardened gaze and empty left sleeve of his dress uniform. There's something familiar about the man, it niggles at Tony in the back of his mind, but he ignores it in favour of shaking the man’s remaining hand while cameras flash.  
   
A hand lands heavily on Tony’s shoulder as he stands at the bar refreshing his drink, after the presentation. It's instinct to tense up, to feel the sharp spike of panic, to hear the fight-or-flight portion of his brain screaming _nononononopleasedontnodont_. A reedy voice meets his hears over the roar of blood rushing, and he swallows down the bile. The bartender passes him the glass of bourbon he ordered. Tony turns to face the man who's talking.  
   
“ – heard the way some of these people have spoken to you about your father, and I've gotta be honest, I think he'd be proud of all the food you've done. This project is a great step forward. It'll help a lot of people.”  
   
The _“If it works”_ goes unsaid. Tony smiles the plastic smile reserved for these functions.  
   
“That's the goal. There's not enough support for the people coming home.”  
   
“Excuse us, Mr Frond, but I borrow Mr Stark for a moment.”  
   
Tony allows Pepper to pull him away from the bar, through the mass of people, until they come to a stop behind a small group of elegantly-dressed attendees. Pepper gives him a Look, one that clearly promises a painful demise if he steps one toe out of line, before she clears her throat quietly. Five pairs of eyes swivel toward her at the sound; three members of the cluster peel away with nods and smiles, leaving Tony staring at two men in military dress. He looks between them; his brain is in overdrive, trying to figure out why they look so familiar.  
   
“Tony, you remember Sergeant Barnes, the recipient of the prosthetic.”  
   
“Of course. How are you, Sergeant?” he asks distractedly, even as he shakes hands with the sergeant.  
   
“And this is Captain Rogers.”  
   
Tony’s gaze lands on the broad shoulders of the blond man. “Oh! Jellyfish dancer!”  
   
An awkward silence falls over the quartet, and Pepper glares at him. Captain Rogers flushes a deep red and drops his hand from where it's hovered between himself and Tony. With a tight smile, Pepper excuses herself, dragging Tony behind her. Her manicured nails don't release his arm until they stand in the corridor outside of the ballroom. There are patches of red on her cheeks, too bright and splotchy to be makeup. She turns to him with a fire blazing in her eyes.  
   
“What the everloving Hell was _that_? Why, why would you – I can't believe you insulted a national hero!”  
   
“I didn't insult –”  
   
“You called him ‘Jellyfish Dancer’, to his face!”  
   
“In my defence,” he starts, but Pepper cuts him off ruthlessly.  
   
“There is _no_ defence for it, Tony. Now, I'm going back in there to smooth over the situation, while _you_ are going home. I'm not risking you screwing this all up because you have less manners than a child raised by wolves.” She levels him with a cold look. “Go home.”  
   
He doesn't respond, watches as she disappears through the door. After sending a quick text to Happy, Tony ambles down the wide hall. He can hear the buzz of conversation fading as he gets further from the double-doors. Only staff loiter the corridors, offering him polite smiles when he passes by. The young woman at coat check barely looks at him, just takes his ticket and goes to grab his jacket. He hands over a tip, drapes the jacket over his arm, and makes his way to the front entrance. He sees the car parked in the circle – just beyond the pack of press that wasn't invited in. The instant the glass door opens, the reporters and cameramen swing their focus toward him. He grins, slips his sunglasses on. Happy’s already pulling open the back car door before Tony’s made it halfway to the idling vehicle. The air is full of shouting, questions being asked loudly in hopes of receiving an answer. Tony ignores them – the information from the presentation will be released in its bare-bones structure within days – and slides into the backseat. Once Happy has the car moving, Tony fishes his phone from his pocket.  
   
“Hey, Jar, give me some information. What did a Captain Rogers do to deserve being hailed a national hero?”  
   
JARVIS immediately has the requested data: “Captain Steven Rogers went against orders to rescue a platoon of Army soldiers from imprisonment in an enemy stronghold. While there, Captain Rogers destroyed the base and brought home nearly seventy prisoners alive, including the recipient for the prosthesis, a Sergeant James ‘Bucky’ Barnes.”  
   
“‘Bucky’? All right, J, run a search on Sergeant Barnes. I wanna know exactly who's getting my baby.”  
   
“How far back shall I go, Sir?”  
   
“Thirteen years. Thanks.”  
   
   
   
“I am so sorry about Mr Stark, Captain. He's…He's a bit rough around the edges at the best of times, and right now, he's under a lot of stress.”  
   
Steve smiles at the redheaded woman. “I understand, ma’am. This project hasn't exactly been supported from the start.”  
   
“No, it hasn't.” Something catches her attention, and she sighs, closing her eyes for a moment. When she looks at Steve and Bucky again, she has a barely-concealed grimace on her face. “If you'll excuse me, there's a particular fire that I need to put out, like, yesterday.”  
   
“Of course.”  
   
She's gone before Steve even finished speaking, all grace and control in her movements. Bucky’s smiling as he sips his drinks.  
   
“Stark can _not_ be paying her enough.”  
   
“No, he can't be. Wonder why he called me… Never mind. I'm not sure I want to know. Anyway. Are you excited?”  
   
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Stevie, I've known about this for three days now.”  
   
“Yeah, but now it's official.”  
   
“I was doin’ just fine with one arm. Sure, it'll be nice to have two again, especially if they both work, but it's not a requirement for my happiness.”  
   
“Did…did he remind you of someone?” Steve asks after a couple minutes of watching people moving about; Bucky pauses, glass halfway to his mouth.  
   
“No. Should he have?”  
   
“I kinda thought, well, he reminds me of Tony.”  
   
“Tony? Tony from next door when we were sixteen?” Bucky drains his whisky in one swallow. “There's no way that man was the Tony from over a decade ago. Look, it's been thirteen years, thirteen long years since that asshole left without havin’ the decency of sayin’ goodbye. You need to stop pining over him. Stop seeing him in every guy with dark hair and dark eyes. He ain't worth the space in your brain, punk.”  
   
“Yeah,” sighs Steve. “Yeah, you're right.”  
   
Later, once his best friend is snoring away in bed, Steve sits on their couch, the shared laptop balanced on his thighs, waiting for the search results to load. The screen finally finishes, and Steve quickly scans the page until the words The Stark Legacy catch his eye. He clicks on the link and grabs his sandwich from the plate beside him. All that's left are crumbs by the time the new page loads fully.  
   
_Stark Industries, created by Howard Stark, has always tested the limits of both technology and morality…Stark made a fortunate creating weapons designed to be “better, faster, more reliable than current market output”…It’s no surprise that Stark – and by default, son Tony – has been dubbed The Merchant of Death…Many have questioned whether Stark’s productions of weapons has been needed, but there are no doubts as to the effectiveness of Stark’s designs…  
   
Anthony Edward Stark took over Stark Industries after his parents’ deaths at age twenty, although the passing of the mantel was purely symbolic until Tony was twenty-one. Obadiah Stane, longtime business partner of Howard Stark, kept Stark Industries running smoothly for the four months between the death of Tony’s parents and Tony’s birthday…At age twenty-seven, Tony made the unexpected decision to shut down the weapons department of SI…Later, sealed records were hacked and released, giving the world evidence of betrayal and corporate sabotage. Obadiah Stane had conspired with terrorist group, Ten Rings, to kidnap and murder Tony Stark during the presentation of a new weapon at a military base… Tony survived three months of imprisonment before a quiet rescue headed by friend from school years, Colonel James Rhodes… It’s only speculation at this point that the kidnapping and attempted murder of Tony spurned the change in SI’s direction…Stane is in a maximum-security prison, having received a life sentence for conspiracy to murder and another for the murder of Howard and Maria Stark. [For more information, click  here.]_  
   
At the bottom of the page is a photograph. The subjects look incredibly bored with the camera; the father is sitting in a tall-backed chair, spine straight, face expressionless. His wife holds his hand from her own chair, and there is a small, polite curve to her painted lips. Standing to the left of him, a mulish set to his jaw and hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, is…Tony.  
   
Steve claps a hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter. He doesn't know why he's laughing - there's certainly nothing funny about the Stark history.  
   
But seeing Tony again, in a photograph that can't have been taken long after Steve knew him, is…it's absurd. Steve remembers that summer with startling clarity, can recall how he felt as he learned about Tony, can still feel the echoes of the pain when Tony left. Thirteen years have passed, but Steve feels like he's that sixteen-year-old boy from Brooklyn again. He glances at the clock, sighing when he sees the time. It's much too late to call his ma. He clears the browser history, exits the internet window, and closes the laptop.  
   
Maybe sleep will help him sort out the chaos in his brain.  
   
   
   
_“Shit.”_  
   
That's the only word spoken, after thirty-two seconds of silence, in the entire voicemail. The number was blocked, but the voice is surprisingly familiar, even after a decade. Once again, Steve saves the message and slides the phone into his pocket. He hates that he missed Tony’s call; since he first heard the voicemail three days ago, he's been wondering nonstop about the “What if”s: What if he'd answered? Would Tony still have hung up? What would they have talked about? Would Steve still be driving himself crazy pondering the possibilities? He forces himself to suck in a deep breath, hold it for a count to five, then release it slowly; he repeats the process until he feels slightly calmer. Then he leaves his bedroom to join Bucky by the front door.  
   
Sam’s in the middle of telling a story about his latest date with a woman named Natasha when Bucky’s phone rings. He excuses himself to take the call outside, and Sam immediately switches topics.  
  
“What’s got you so quiet over there, Cap?”  
  
Steve shoots him a flat look. “I’m fine.”  
  
“Doesn’t answer my question.” Sam takes a bite of his omelette. When Steve doesn’t reply while Sam’s chewing, he sighs. “Buck told me you thought you saw Tony at the gala.”  
  
"I didn’t _think_ I saw Tony.”  
  
“So…What? You’re saying it was Tony, the kid you haven’t seen in over ten years?”  
  
“It was. I, uh, I Googled him – Tony Stark, I mean. There was a website dedicated to the Stark family and the company. There was a picture of them.”  
  
“Let me get this straight. You looked the man up only _after_ seeing him at an event, when you could have and probably should have looked him up the second Barnes got the letter saying he was going to get the first ever neurally-integrated prosthetic, but anyway, you looked him up on the off-chance that he was the kid that you were, like, in love with when you were sixteen.”  
  
“I wasn’t in love with him,” protests Steve, but Sam talks over him.  
  
“And now you’re telling me that the kid you had a massive crush on – there, is that better? – is actually Tony Stark, creator of said prosthetic arm for your best friend?”  
  
Steve exhales heavily. “Yeah, pretty much.”  
  
“I do not envy you your life, man.”  
  
Before they can say more, Bucky rejoins them. His face is pale, coated with a fine sheen of sweat that’s unrelated to the pleasant temperature outside the diner. His blue eyes are wide and full of panic. Steve exchanges a concerned look with Sam before pushing his plate away and turning toward his best friend.  
  
“Buck, is everything okay?”  
  
“That…That was the receptionist for Stark Industries. There’s an opening in their schedule, and they can fit me in.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“Today at two-thirty.”  
  
“You okay, Barnes?”  
  
“What do you think, Wilson?” Bucky snaps, shoving his hand through his hair.  
  
He doesn’t calm much by the time their cab stops outside the tall building in Manhattan. Steve hands over the money for the fare and gently pushes Bucky out of the car. Before they get inside, before they even get near the entrance, Bucky peels away from Steve’s side, hurrying down the packed sidewalk. Steve sighs, follows after Bucky, sends quick apologies to anyone who actually makes a sound of protest.  
  
“Bucky, c’mon, stop.” Steve gently grabs onto his arm and pulls him to a bench. “Hey, hey. You’re okay, Buck. I promise, you’re okay.”  
  
Bucky’s shoulders shake with uneasy breaths, and he gasps out, “I can’t do this. Stevie, I can’t fuckin’ do this.”  
  
“You don’t have to, if you really don’t think you can. I’m sure Mr Stark and Ms Potts can find someone else. After all, there are a lot –”  
  
“I can’t tell them ‘no,’ not after all they’ve done for me.”  
  
“They haven’t done anything yet. You can still say no.”  
  
“No.” Bucky visibly pulls himself together; his body stops trembling so viciously, he swipes his hand over his face to get rid of the tears, and jaw tightens. “No, I can’t. I’m too selfish to let an opportunity like this pass by without grabbing it with both hands.”  
  
"I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”  
  
Bucky smiles – it’s a weak smile, shaky at the edges, but it’s a smile nonetheless. Steve pulls him in for a quick embrace before dragging him to his feet. The lobby of Stark Industries is bustling with workers; a large fountain stands in the centre of the room, right behind the receptionist’s desk. Security guards line the walls at specific intervals, the same amount of distance between each of them. The air is full of elevators dinging, people talking amongst themselves or on their phones, and shoes tapping against the marble floor. Steve tenses at the onslaught of sound, at the lack of clear exit routes, but Bucky’s far worse, so Steve grounds himself to reality and leads Bucky toward the desk.  
  
“Hi. Uh, Sergeant James Barnes had an appointment today?”  
  
The receptionist glances down at the schedule book in front of her. “Of course. Here are temporary visitors’ passes. They will _not_ get you into any secure areas, so don’t try. It doesn’t yield pretty results.” She points to one of the elevator banks. “Sergeant Barnes’s appointment will be on the forty-third floor. Have a great day, gentlemen.”  
  
“You, too, ma’am. C’mon, Buck.”  
  
Thankfully, the lift is empty when they step on. Steve is flummoxed by the featureless silver walls; there are no buttons to press. He glances at Bucky, who shrugs in response. A cool British voice cuts through the quiet.  
  
“Please state your destination, sir.”  
  
“Oh, um, floor forty-three. Sorry.”  
  
You are quite forgiven, sir.”  
  
Bucky stares around the small space, obviously searching for speakers. Steve assumes they’re embedded in the walls, designed to blend into the metal surrounding them. The ride is smooth – and short. He doesn’t realise he’s nervous, and not just for his friend, until the doors open with a quiet whoosh. He grips onto Bucky’s shoulder, leads him out of the elevator to the same pleasant voice wishing them a good day.  
  
Another desk blocks the path to a heavy set of wooden doors bearing a plaque emblazoned with P. Potts, CEO. The receptionist here immediately picks up the telephone, punches in a number, and speaks quietly to whoever answers. When he replaces the handset in its cradle, he gestures toward a row of expensive-looking leather armchairs. Steve nods, dragging Bucky over and pushing him gently into one. They don’t have to wait long, not even ten minutes, in the room with pale ochre walls and grey stone floors. The door to the office opens, and Ms Potts steps out. She smiles at Steve once the door is locked behind her.  
  
"Hello. It’s wonderful to see you again, Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes. Mr Aston, please hold my calls.”  
  
"Yes, Ms Potts.”  
  
Steve extends a hand toward the businesswoman. “It’s great to see you, as well, Ms Potts.”  
  
"Are you gentlemen ready?”  
  
She’s directed the question to Bucky, as if Steve’s answer doesn’t matter a bit, which is technically true. Bucky nods once, jerky and determined. Once he’s on his feet, Ms Potts ushers them into the elevator. The doors close almost silently, but not before Steve catches sight of Mr Aston typing furiously on his phone. All signs of professionalism in the young man have disappeared in the absence of his boss.  
  
"JARVIS, please tell me he’s not in the workshop.”  
  
"Unfortunately, Ms Potts,” replies the disembodied voice, sounding exasperated, “I am not programmed to lie.”  
  
"Then take us there, please.”  
  
"Of course, Ms Potts.”  
  
The ride is longer this time, or maybe it seems that way because of Steve’s worry over Bucky. His face is ashen, taut; his eyes stare straight ahead, blank and unfocused. His right hand clutches at the hem of jacket tight enough that his knuckles are white, and he’s shaking slightly. Steve knows that this isn’t just nervousness.  
  
"Buck? You’re okay. It’s almost over. We’re almost there. Right, Ms Potts?”  
  
She glances up from the tablet in her hand, eyes widening when she sees Bucky. “JARVIS, stop the elevator at the next floor and let us off.”  
  
She sets the tablet on the floor with a command to JARVIS to take it directly to the workshop, then helps Steve coax the dissociating veteran off the lift. Bucky follows obediently, mechanically, but is still too far lost to react. Workers – scientists, judging by their white lab coats – don’t look up from their tasks as Ms Potts guides Steve and Bucky to a restroom down the hallway, past the rooms separated from the corridor by thick glass. She stands tall in front of them, a soft light in her eyes, and Steve spares a single second full of admiration and gratitude for the woman in a sharp black pantsuit and heels.  
  
“What does he need, Captain Rogers?”  
  
  
  
The elevator dings for what feels like the trillionth time in less than a minute, and Tony sighs, head falling forward.  
  
"Is there a reason the elevator is yelling at me? No one’s on it, no one’s getting off – unless they’re ghosts. J, is the Tower haunted?”  
  
“No, sir. Any and all occupants, save for myself and your trio of bots, are absolutely human.”  
  
“Then why am I being yelled at by an empty elevator?”  
  
“Ms Potts sent it ahead with her tablet, sir. She requested I not allow any other passengers on this particular lift until said tablet was in your possession.”  
  
“Why didn’t you just tell me this before making the elevator ding at me a million times?” asks Tony even as he drops the wrench to the worktable.  
  
“It was only ten times, sir. It would’ve been less, but you insisted on being stubborn and ignoring it. In regards to why I didn’t tell you, I feel compelled to remind you that you ordered me to not interrupt your work unless it was a life-or-death situation.”  
  
Tony pauses mid-step, then continues toward the lift. “I will set a fire to your server banks if you keep getting snarky. Where _is_ Pepper, anyway?”  
  
"Sergeant Barnes needed to use the facilities,” JARVIS replies after the slightest of pauses.  
  
“Right.” He glances down at the StarkPad in his hand and reads aloud, “‘No being a dick today, Tony. Sgt Barnes is already having a rough enough time.’ When am I ever a dick?”  
  
“I believe Ms Potts would answer that question with one of her own, sir.”  
  
"Yeah? And what’s that?”  
  
“When are you not?”  
  
Tony’s still chuckling ten minutes later when the workshop door chimes and slides open. He doesn’t look up from the schematic of the mechanical arm; Pepper’s heels snap against the floor sharply as she crosses to him.  
  
“Tony, Sergeant Barnes is here. I’d stay, but Dr Strange is on the line, and I can’t exactly keep him waiting.”  
  
“Of course you can. _I’m_ paying _him_ , and allowing him the chance to do something supremely awesome, not the other way around.”  
  
"Regardless, Tony, that’s not a viable reason to be an ass. He could’ve easily said no to helping on this project.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Go. Sarge and I will be fine. I’ll even play nice with him at recess and give him my cookie after lunch.”  
  
"Don't. Be. A. Dick,” she hisses in his ear before plucking up her tablet and walking away.  
  
“Okay, Sarge, see this?” He gestures toward the holographic screen in midair before him. “This is gonna be the miracle that makes you normal again.”  
  
Tony manages to make it all the way through explaining the science behind the arm, what the surgery and physical therapy will be like (“Don’t worry if I’m not making sense. I’m a genius, sure, but the actual experts in these fields will tell you again.”) and everything the instructions for post-surgery entail, before he looks up – and immediately freezes. Steve Rogers is standing a few feet behind Bucky (and _Jesus, is Barnes hungover?_ ), a frown on his face, arms crossed over his (rather spectacular) chest. He’s not wearing anything necessarily fashion-forward – just a pair of dark-wash jeans and a deep blue knit sweater – but Tony’s speechless anyway. His brain (un)helpfully overlays a snapshot from his memory of sixteen-year-old Stevie onto the very-much-so-present Captain Steven Rogers, and it’s all confirmed: Steve is definitely the scrawny, asthmatic kid from Brooklyn who became Tony’s second genuine friend, for whom Tony made Sick Soup.  
  
_Fuck my life._  
  
He almost feels like an idiot. Despite the major difference in height and body build, nothing else has changed about Steve. His eyes are still impossibly blue; the line of his jaw is still sharp – and yep, _there_ 's that stubborn tightening; his lips still look as, well, as kissable as they did thirteen years ago. Tony thought he’d gotten over that stupid crush after Howard jerked him from Anna’s house without giving him time to say goodbye. But seeing Steve again is bringing back echoes of that summer and all the feelings that came along for the ride.  
  
Bucky clears his throat, and Tony tears his gaze from Steve's pink cheeks. “Anything else I should know?”  
  
Yeah, Barnes hasn’t changed much, either. He’d looked like his body was preparing for muscular growth during Tony’s exile to Brooklyn, and boy, his body prepared well. Sure, he’s missing an arm, and he looks like he’s being haunted by invisible demons – _oh._ Not hungover, then. But he still has that same thick-headed air around him.  
  
“Right! Uh, yeah, um, you got someone to help out post-op?”  
  
"Why, you volunteerin’?”  
  
“You wish, Buckaroo. You won’t be able to do much for the first month or so, and by much, I mean ‘pretty much nothing.’ Then it’ll be light activity with your physical therapist, nothing strenuous, but you’ll still need to be careful even wiping your own ass with your new arm, because this? Is very, very complex, and it’ll be incredibly easy to fuck up even accidentally.” Tony inhales deeply, exhales slowly, wills his heart to stop racing. “So I repeat. Is anybody lined up to help you?”  
  
"I am.”  
  
It’s a struggle, one Tony almost loses, but he manages to avoid looking in Steve’s direction. “Great. Okay. Someone from Dr Banner’s – no, Dr Strange’s – I dunno, someone from somewhere will call to set up the appointment. JARVIS will see you out. See ya.”  
  
“If you’ll step into the lift, sirs, I will take you to the ground floor.”  
  
Tony waits until the door slides shut behind Steve and Bucky, to freak out. He drops his head onto the counter, groaning, and shoves a filthy hand through his hair. This feels like a “ _Shit_!” kind of moment, so he starts muttering “ _Shit_ ” under his breath repeatedly like some sort of vulgar mantra. Once he’s spent sufficient time letting his stunted emotions out to play, he forces them back into their little black box and gets to work. First order of business: Call Rhodey.  
  
Who, of course, doesn’t actually answer his damn phone. So Tony does what he always does when Rhodey is unavailable. He gets a drink. Maybe three. No, definitely only one. Now that Bucky’s come in for the pre-pre-op, it’s time to hook the horse to the cart and get the ball moving. Or whatever. He’s lost where that snippet of wisdom started from and where it was even meant to go.  
  
One four-hour conference call (that somehow devolved into a pissing match among the world’s leading brains of the medical community, and ended up with Tony putting the call on mute halfway through and getting drunk), two board meetings during which he could only focus on the biography he’s read numerous times since JARVIS compiled it, and six days later, Tony finds himself ambling into the surgery waiting room with a cup of the hospital’s finest sludge ( _Seriously, Dum-E makes better motor oil smoothies than this._ ) and an uneven beat to his heart. Steve’s staring at the wall like he has X-ray vision and can see what’s being done to his best friend in the name of medical and technological advances. He looks just as good as he’d done a week ago in Tony’s workshop, which is highly unfair given that he’s wearing a pair of plaid cotton pyjama pants and a Go Army shirt that looks like it’s seen better days. Even his scruff looks perfectly imperfect.  
  
He doesn’t look at Tony, and Tony avoids outright staring. Sneaking peeks is acceptable, but staring is a major no-no (at least, according to Pepper, who’s usually – okay, nearly always right). The clock on the baby-puke-green wall ticks away the seconds. Around the fifteen-minute mark, Tony starts to get bored. An hour later, he starts to get restless. The three-hour mark brings forced calm in the shape of mentally deconstructing the arc reactor that powers the Tower and categorising parts by use, then importance, then alphabet. He makes it a whole six and a half hours before he can’t take it any more. He stands, opens his mouth to say something, realises he has nothing to say that would be appropriate in this situation, and presses his lips together. He thinks he sees Steve’s eyes following him as he walks away.  
  
  
  
Tony lasted longer than Steve thought he would. Steve could see the obvious effort the dark-haired man was exerting to stop the tapping of his fingers against his thigh, of his shoes against the linoleum, of just sitting in an uncomfortable armchair for nearly seven hours for – for what? It’s been thirteen years. There’s no reason to expect Tony to remember sickly Steve from Brooklyn, not when Tony’s met so many people who are much more interesting and important.  
  
The arm.  
  
The arm is why Tony forced himself to stay so long, to try to wait for the results as soon as it’s been grafted and integrated onto Bucky’s body. Of course, thinks Steve wryly once he can no longer hear Tony’s receding footsteps. The arm is Tony’s current pride and joy, the latest in a long line of amazing creations and inventions in his life. But if Tony is at all similar to his teenaged self, then this project is just as important – no more, no less – as anything else he’s done. Time and amount of successes will never change how he views all he’s made, except maybe the weapons his company was built for.  
  
Then again, Steve’s running off of the assumption that thirty-year-old Tony Stark is anything like seventeen-year-old Tony who didn’t flaunt his genius in a cruel way, who made Steve his butler’s Sick Soup even though he’d never cooked anything before, who treated Steve something akin to ‘friend’, who left that summer without saying goodbye – without ever knowing just how much he impacted Steve’s life.  
  
Because of Tony, because of the pain he inadvertently caused, Steve pushed himself past his limits. He forced his body to cooperate with a diet, with a new exercise regime, with retaining weight and muscle mass. The growth spurt at seventeen that caused him to gain nearly four inches in ten months, then another three inches in the year after that, opened the door to plans that had never seemed achievable before. As Bucky said, though, Steve finally got a body to match his insides.  
  
But Steve’s never quite gotten past that summer. He stopped talking about it with Bucky because he only ever had one piece of advice: “Get over it, Stevie. He’s a dick. You deserve better.” There were plenty of nights, when his ma was home from work, that Steve just couldn’t stop going over what had happened. Sarah had always understood him, never once told him he was wrong for feeling the way he did about a boy he only knew for nine weeks through notes and windows (although she wasn’t happy that either boy was risking their safety by walking from roof to roof, especially in the dark). She still doesn’t judge him for the fact that he still has that old lockbox full of the folded pieces of paper.  
  
And now it’s thirteen years later, and Steve feels like he’s back at square one, just as hopelessly confused at twenty-eight as he was at fifteen.  
  
He continues sitting in the chair, letting his mind replay how Bucky looked when he got the letter stating he was eligible for the prototype of a new prosthetic; how Sarah had smiled when Steve graduated from high school and cried when he got his deployment orders; how terrified he was when he found Bucky’s still form in the corner of a dark cell – No. He clenches his fists and shoves that particular memory away. Bucky’s alive, not half-dead in a prisoner cell in a desert. He’s alive, healthy, and undergoing surgery to become the first person to ever have a prosthesis that actually functions like a biological arm. Steve closes his eyes, prays to a God he’s not even sure he believes in any more, asks that Bucky makes it through this safely.  
  
“Hey, man.”  
  
Steve doesn’t even have to look to know that Sam is wearing his ‘I’m worried about you’ face. “Hey. I’m fine, promise. Just tired. We’ve been here since four this morning, and we were both too nervous about today to get much sleep last night.”  
  
“Understandable. Wanna go catch some shuteye? A nurse told me it’d be at least a few more hours.”  
  
"Nah.” He opens his eyes and sees the woman standing beside Sam in the doorway to the waiting room. “Oh. Hello.”  
  
“Hi. You must be Steve.”  
  
“Yeah. You are…Natasha?”  
  
"Sam’s been talking about me?”  
  
"Only a little. I mean, he definitely did _not_!spend our entire lunch last Tuesday waxing poetic about your date on Sunday night or anything like that.”  
  
Sam buries his face in his hands as Natasha laughs softly. “I don’t blame him. It was a really great date.” Her green eyes narrow at the chair next to Steve.”I think you dropped something.”  
  
Steve glances over, and his heart inexplicably starts racing. In the seat that Tony vacated sits a folded piece of paper, innocently interrupting the abstract golden swirls in the brown fabric. He can feel Sam and Natasha’s gazes on him as he reaches over. His fingers are shaking slightly; he nearly rips the paper while opening it.  
  
_I’m sorry. For so much more than can fit on one piece of notebook paper (who the Hell actually keeps notebooks around any more?? Seriously – there’s something called tablets. Even iPads would be more acceptable than this Neanderthal method of note taking. Anyway). So…  
  
Would you be willing to meet me for coffee? If so, there’s plenty of time between whenever you read this and Barnes’s surgery finishing up (my calculations put it at anywhere between 3-5 hours). I’ll be at this little diner down the block from the hospital. I’ll probably be here for a while. Coffee. Yeah. Plus, Pepper says I need to be nearby in case – well, she just said I need to be nearby.  
  
So yeah. Don’t feel obligated to come if you don’t want to. I’ll understand. It’s your choice, Captain._  
  
"Steve? What is it? Hey, man, you gotta answer verbally.”  
  
"It’s…He wants me to meet him.”  
  
  
  
Tony stares down at his coffee. This definitely wasn’t one of his smarter ideas. Especially today, of all days. But he knows he would have lost any and all nerve if he didn’t do it today. He was at least considerate enough to tell Steve that he _didn’t have_ to come. Pepper would be proud of him. Except she’ll never know about this, especially if it doesn’t happen the way he’s hoping. It’s bad enough that Rhodey has first-hand knowledge of the crush Tony had on Steve when they were teenagers; he’s even seen the drawings Steve gave him that summer (and begged Tony for a copy of the Rhodey-as-a-dog one, which Tony was reluctant to give). If Pepper found out, it would be far too much for Tony to handle. He loves her, always will, because she’s like Rhodey – she’s put up with too many of his quirks for too long for him to not love her – but she’s worse than a dog with a bone when she learns of something that proves that Tony’s not just a rich, sarcastic, eccentric, genius inventor who refuses to have emotions. 

  
With a sigh, he swallows down a mouthful of cold coffee and lets the server refill his mug. He’s done a good job of ignoring the bell ringing every time the door opens, since hey, being Tony Stark in public in the middle of New York? Impossible to avoid paparazzi and people wanting autographs (or to still scream at him about being a murderer – _three years after he stopped manufacturing weapons_ ). He sighs, swipes a hand over his eyes, and stretches his neck. He freezes when his gaze lands on the person standing just inside the door.  
  
Steve Rogers stares back at him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prompt that, well, prompted me to write this fic. 


End file.
